


Seventh Year

by beneduck_cucumberpatch



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hufflepuff John, M/M, Potterlock, Quidditch, Slytherin Sherlock, a touch of angst, but then it gets better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneduck_cucumberpatch/pseuds/beneduck_cucumberpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's about to start his seventh and final year at Hogwarts with his best friend by his side. This year would be the best. John Watson was about to go out with a bang.</p><p>But something comes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     September is eternally a cold month. It marks the barrier between summer being over and the beginning of winter. Dead leaves crunch under thick boots and chilled air pinches the noses of all who dare to trespass in what was once warm. London, ever frigid and harsh in the cold months, seemed to have already succumbed to winter's calling.  
     This wasn't all September brought, though. September brought along a new school year and once again John would be spending ten months out of town. He had all he needed. His robes, all folded to perfection and tightly packed under textbooks, his wand, his owl-- affectionately dubbed 'Froyo', his broomstick, and a fair amount of 'interesting muggle items' to show his best friend, a boy born into the wizard world with a very basic understanding of muggle technology. Hogwarts felt more like home than his house ever could. The boy's father, alcoholic and far too loud about his supposed opinions, was far from hospitable and his sister was far too similar. Hogwarts was were John Watson belonged.  
     It was the same ritual each year since his second. He'd be meeting Sherlock, a tall Slytherin a year his junior with dark hair and eyes that felt as though they saw right through you-- because they did, and they'd mosey around on platform 9 3/4 until it was time to board the train. All he had to do was wait for his friend to arrive.

     Sherlock was far more anxious than he had the right to be. He knew there was nothing to actually be worried about, of course, but that never stopped him. He bounced impatiently in the queue, suddenly wishing he'd bought his supplies much further in advance. He had all he needed, really, save for his copy of Flesh-Eating Trees of the World. As soon as he'd put down the money-- one Galleon and eleven Sickles-- he'd taken the book and left, ushering his family away to get to King's Cross. Ignoring his brother's teasing about the certain Hufflepuff he was eager to see, Sherlock eventually got to the station and made his way into platform 9 3/4.

     Their reunion was the same as it always was. John, though much closer to the ground than the skyscraper family of Holmes, offered a close embrace. The Holmes parents adored John Watson and all he was, a brilliant shift from what he faced at home. He was sure it'd never grow dull. He asked about all he missed and loved the time they spent catching up. Soon, though, it was time to board the train. After the luggage was secure he offered a wave and stepped onto the car, watching Sherlock's face shrivel as his mother pressed a kiss to his cheek.  
     John would push down the jealousy he felt and never bring it up.  
     He got into a compartment and got comfortable, waiting for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock came in and closed the door behind him, taking a seat on the plush grey fabric. He immediately curled his knees to his chest, eyes moving over John. He'd changed over the summer. He'd gotten a bit taller and his shoulders seemed wider. He was just how Sherlock remembered him. Sherlock had gotten taller, too, but not by much. His friend was still at least a head shorter than himself. Sherlock found the height difference to be yet another charming trait of the muggleborn boy, who seemed to constantly be proving himself a worthwhile investment of time.  
Soon the train had left and the boys sat discussing everything that had happened in the months they'd not seen each other. The wizarding world's communication system-- still incapable of Internet-- had been a hassle compared to the simple texting John was used to at home. He enjoyed writing letters, though. The freedom of space where he could write whatever he seemed fit. With this he remembered the gifts he brought for Sherlock to examine. Sherlock, however, was busy with a game installed on John's mobile and a chocolate frog who was missing half its body. He'd chuckle and take his mobile back, pushing it back into his pocket and mumbling about how the battery won't last forever. John stood up, saying he was going to change into his robes and Sherlock opted to follow, still wanting to hear more from the boy. They'd changed and returned, their admirable pile of sweets, courtesy of Sherlock, left untouched.  
     When the train pulled into Hogsmeade the boys stood and left, gathering their luggage and meeting again afterwards. John watched Redbeard, Sherlock's auburn owl, in his cage, his wide eyes blinking up at John, who smiled back to the bird. They boarded the carriages, sitting beside each other as it was pulled by the tall, chilling creatures John didn't enjoy looking at but always ended up staring in morbid fascination. He'd mentioned seeing them to Sherlock once during his fourth year and Sherlock's third. They didn't talk about it much, but John could still remember the night Sherlock snuck out of his dorm to spend the night with him. They laughed and talked for hours after putting a silencing charm on the space around his bed. He told Sherlock that night about how he watched his mother die. They'd never bring it up again.  
They chattered quietly the entire ride to Hogwarts. Once there and separated they promised to meet again later. John was welcomed to the Hufflepuff table, sitting beside mates from the quidditch team. They laughed together and caught up, John's eyes landing on Sherlock every few minutes. He sat down at the Slytherin table, eyes roaming over the first years with what only could be described as disgust. John mirrored the expression the second Jim Moriarty, another Slytherin sixth year, sat beside Sherlock, who looked equally as disgusted with Jim as he did the first years. John, while sure Sherlock could handle himself, kept a close eye on Jim.  
After the Headmaster's speech and the feast, where John ate until he was drowsy and Sherlock picked at some bread and sipped on pumpkin juice, they were left to head back to their dorms. They had two days to settle in before classes would be starting. The boys took advantage of this time. John, as quidditch team captain, wanted to practice flying. He'd not gotten on to his broom in the months he was away from Hogwarts. The wind in his hair and the freedom of being free from the tethers of gravity called to him. Sherlock, preferring to keep his feet planted on solid earth, would watch in wonder as John spun and maneuvered through the air. The air, though crisp and sharp, felt more comforting than his thickest jumper in front of the warmest fire.  
     John, though far from good, would play Sherlock in Wizard's Chess in exchange for the time they'd spend out on the quidditch field. Sherlock would win every time. This never stopped them from playing, though; they'd sit for hours.  
Classes started soon enough and the boys would greet each other when possible in the hallways. The only class they shared was herbology, something they could collaborate in to make better grades. Being a N.E.W.T. level class, however, meant it'd certainly be a difficult course.  
John spent his time at class or at quidditch practice, enjoying his last year at Hogwarts. Sherlock spent his time similarly, either being at class or watching John at quidditch practice. He went to the games, of course, if John would be playing. After the first quidditch match, Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw, John had been ecstatic. It was always a good sign when you won the first game. He smiled, feeling himself warm as John grinned at him. Sherlock was pulled into a tight, sweaty embrace the next moment and he, while disgusted at the smell of drying sweat, felt truly happy. Sherlock would hug his friend back, his own face red and cheeks sore from the effort of keeping the corners of his mouth up. He'd let John go off to his dorm to celebrate in the Hufflepuff common room and John would be back after a proper shower to celebrate with his friend.  
     Sherlock sat quietly, perusing a book on potions and offering a curt nod every time Molly, a fifth year Ravenclaw, said something. John approached and Sherlock shut his book, offering a small smile. He threw a small farewell to the Ravenclaw, who smiled up at the both of them. John gave small conversation but they both left after a while. Sherlock walked beside John, congratulating him on his excellent playing. Sherlock, even after the years of watching quidditch, still had no clue what all was 'good' at what wasn't. He was paying attention to what John did in the air. His eyes flicked to John's broom every few moments, admiring the wood and how right it felt for it to be John's. Once they were back to the quidditch field Sherlock took off his robes, laying them carefully against the barrier as he sat down on the raised bleachers, placing his wand beside him. John hopped on to his broom, flying around a few circles before floating up beside Sherlock, watching him.  
     "Problem?" Sherlock smirked, crossing his arms.  
     "Nope," John chuckled, snatching Sherlock's wand and flying away. Sherlock gave a yelp and stood quickly, leaning over the edge to demand his wand back.  
     "If you want it come get it," John teased. Sherlock made his way down to the quidditch field, trying to grab a hold of John's broomstick. Sherlock laughed, jumping and just barely missing each time. He dangled the wand just above Sherlock and pulled it away again.  
     "How about you come down here and make it a fair fight? Or are you worried you'll lose?" Sherlock watched as John held his wand back but got off his broomstick. Sherlock waited until the broomstick was far enough away to be safe before lunging at John, long arms reaching to grab the wand just out of reach. John jumped backwards, trying to keep the wand out of reach, but tripped over Sherlock's foot, falling backwards to the plush grass. Sherlock fell to his knees, determined to get his wand and apathetic about grass stains. John tried his best to keep it away from Sherlock pale, long fingers but saw they were getting far too close. He rolled them, pinning Sherlock's hands with his left forearm and sitting on his hips. He laughed for a few moments as Sherlock stared breathless at him. He stared back, eyes moving over Sherlock's eyes, something John was sure we're enchanted to change color every second.  
Before he knew what he was doing John had leaned in and pressed his lips carefully to Sherlock's. They stayed there for a moment, John smiled and was about to pull away when Sherlock roughly pushed him off.  
     "What the hell are you doing?" He yelled, scooting quickly backwards and away from John.  
     "I- I thought," John scrambled to stand up, eyes moving over Sherlock. He felt his stomach drop. Isn't that what he wanted? Sherlock stood and snatched back his wand, John's hand opening easily. Sherlock backed away as John stood there, quickly grabbing his robes and leaving the field. He called after Sherlock, asking him to come back, which Sherlock ignored.  
     John stood stock still, watching Sherlock turn into a small dot on the horizon.


	2. Chapter 2

John and Sherlock didn't talk for a while after that. He'd tried to get Sherlock's attention at lunch. He knew Sherlock could see him but wasn't reacting. John left lunch early to stay in the Hufflepuff common room, wanting to be alone for a while. He left when he was sure lunch was over to meet Sherlock before class.   
In the hallway before their herbology class he walked beside Sherlock.   
"Sherlock? I'm sorry, you know. I'm so, so sorry. That was way out of line and I'm sorry. I didn't-- I thought it'd be okay," he tried, hoping Sherlock would speak to him.   
"You thought it'd be okay?" He asked incredulously, "What part of that was okay?"   
"I thought you'd want that. I thought that you were interested," John moved in front of him, stopping him from going further.   
"What you did will never be okay, John. You can't just go around doing that to people. I am not one of your women, I'm not one of your girlfriends. You do not reserve the rights to toy with me like that. Get out of my way, John, I have a class to get to." He pushed past John and kept on his way with John shouting after him to come back. John sighed, eventually giving up and following behind him.   
He let himself think about what Sherlock said. He was right, wasn't he? He shouldn't've done that. John sat down in herbology, feeling guilty about what he'd done. He looked to Sherlock, seated to his right. Sherlock was turned away, obviously trying to ignore John. They sat in silence until the end of class. When Sherlock got up to leave John stopped him from leaving.  
"Sherlock I didn't do mean to--"  
"We've been over this, John. I don't care what you meant to do. What you didn't wasn't funny. Was it worth it, John? Get a good laugh from your quidditch team?"  
"What?" John watched him, not knowing what the other boy was saying.   
"You heard me, John. I asked--"  
"I know what you asked, Sherlock, I mean why would you think that? No one knows about what happened. I meant what I did, Sherlock. And yeah, I know, it was a dick thing to do to just do that. I just thought that maybe you'd be interested and I'm sorry."  
Sherlock stood still, eyes moving from the floor to John, who was obviously worried. He wanted Sherlock to listen to him, to forgive him, even if he did doubt that Sherlock felt the same about him. He spoke, after a moment of silence, in a hushed tone.   
"You meant it, then? This isn’t some sort of joke that you’re playing on me?" his voice was tipped it worry. He felt his stomach flip. He wasn’t sure if he actually wanted the answer to this question.  
"Yes, Sherlock, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!" John pushed his fingers through his hair, "Not a joke. I swear."  
Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, "Right. Okay. I— yes. I’m," he pauses, "Interested. In you."  
"Yes?"  
"Yes."  
John stood for a moment, not entirely sure the situation was real. "Yes?" he repeats again. He smiled to Sherlock resisting the urge to jump. "We can— You know? We could. Meet me tonight in the library. Before curfew, I mean. We could go back to the quidditch field, maybe? I could bring.. food. I don’t know." John smiled up to him, picking up his bag.   
"That’d be.. good, yes," Sherlock smiled back, fiddling with   
"Shit. I have to go. Meet me there at seven," John rushed off with a smile on his face and everything was okay.


End file.
